


The Five People Who Were Affected by Greg House's Infarction (and the One Who Wasn't)

by ThePerk42



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5558639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePerk42/pseuds/ThePerk42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6 drabbles which make reference to House's leg infarction and the impact it had on his relationships with those closest to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five People Who Were Affected by Greg House's Infarction (and the One Who Wasn't)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FFN in 2009, but I'm planning on cleaning up/deleting that account, so I spruced it up a bit and here it is!

**1.) Stacy Warner**

You were in a meeting with a client when you got the phone call. "Stacy?" It was James – Greg's best friend. He didn't call you often, unless Greg was passed out drunk on the couch, and he knew you would be worrying. He was a good friend, you had a lot of respect for him. But sometimes you saw the way Greg looked at him, ignored personal boundaries, smiled a little to brightly when he saw him...you didn't like James.

"I'm in a meeting right now. Can I call you back?" You smiled apologetically at your client.

"No, I don't think that's a good idea," he told you. His voice was anxious. He never sounded like that.

"Oh. What...happened?" You were almost afraid to ask. With Greg's devil-may-care attitude, you knew anything could have gone wrong.

"We're in the hospital. House and I were...golfing. All of a sudden, he got a pain in his leg. I brought him here, but they don't seem to think anything's wrong." He sounded upset, like he thought maybe this was his fault.

You felt guilty for it afterward – years later when you looked back on that day – but at the moment, you hoped _maybe_ it was James' fault, because then Greg would finally like you more. But you brushed the thought from your mind. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Stacy?" he swallowed thickly.

You had almost hung up the phone, but you grinned sheepishly at your client one more time. "Yes, James?"

"I've...I've never heard him scream like that." You could almost see him shaking on the other end. He needed a friend, too.

"James, go home," you told him. "Call your wife, tell her you need her. I will be there soon. There's nothing you can do for him right now."

"I don't know..."

"James, I'm serious. Go. Home."

"Okay." He hung up the phone, but you knew he wouldn't leave until you got there – if at all.

**2.) Lisa Cuddy**

Your office was small, back then, when you remember it. You had thought it was massive – bigger than any of the other department heads, at least – but now you know how small it was. You remember it like it was yesterday. You had been at your desk, filling out charts, when someone knocked on your door.

"Come in," you told them, and when the door opened, it was Dr. Spreemonty. You had always hated him. You worked in the same department, and he had been so angry when you had gotten the position of department head, you had almost expected a full blown riot. "Dr. Spreemonty." You tried to sound professional, polite, even. But you could never seem to sound like you were happy see him – not that he visited often. He walked up to your desk, looking appraisingly at your inbox. "To what do I owe the honour of seeing you today?" You tried not to sound snarky, but it wasn't an easy task when you were in his vicinity.

"I had a patient come in this morning, complaining of severe pain in his leg. Gave himself a shot of Demerol while I was holding the syringe. I put him in a room, cathed him-"

"You cathed him?" you asked, your eyes narrowing.

"I thought it would be a good way to stop him if he's just drug seeking. But he kept saying he was a doctor. I still don't have a history..."

"You haven't gotten a history?" It was difficult to be surprised that Dr. Spreemonty wasn't the head, he was so incompetent.

"Too much pain," he told you. "Anyways, I told him that I would send you in to take a look at his case, seems he knows you."

"What's his name?" you asked, setting down your pen.

"Greg House."

**3.) James Wilson**

You weren't in the ICU with him often until after the second surgery. Stacy was too scared to be there when he woke up, so you said you would sit with him instead. You laced your fingers lightly through his (even though that's not what males usually do with their best friends, you thought he might be too groggy to notice), and kept an eye on his vitals, sponging off sweat, because even in his sleep, he was hurting. You were there when he sucked in a shaking breath and his eyelids fluttered open. You were the one who his eyes landed on when he was glancing around the room for her. He looked mildly disappointed that the hand holding his was large and a little calloused (at least compared to hers) but otherwise made no notice or mention of your breech of the "man friend rules". When he made a face and looked down at his thigh, you knew that you should call Dr. Cuddy. She would probably be better at handling him. But you didn't think it was fair to keep him in the dark, either.

"What happened?" he asked you, his voice still hoarse from hours of disuse.

"After she put you in the coma, Stacy decided to do something...different." You wanted to be up front with him, look him in the eyes when you told him, but it was surprisingly hard. How was he going to feel, when he found out the he had to quit the basketball team you guys were on? No more early morning runs together. No more touch/tag/tackle football on the odd weekend. So, instead of looking into his eyes, you swallowed thickly and looked slightly to the right side of his face, noting the lost look in his eyes, the stubble on his face, the way his mouth was hanging open just a little bit. "Cuddy told her about a middle ground."

"A middle ground?" he knew already what you were going to say, he knew why his leg hurt so badly, but not the rest of him. He knew why he was on dialysis right now, when before there had been no point. "You mean...?" He squeezed your hand for emphasis.

"They took out the dead muscle tissue. You're on dialysis to filter everything out. You're going to be fine."

He rolled away from you, trying to loose his hand from yours. "Yeah. If you call being a cripple for the rest of my life fine."

But you wouldn't let his hand go. "You're not going to be cripple, House." You ran your thumb over the back of his tight hand, trying to sooth him, "You're going to be fine. You're going to work hard in physio, you'll come out of this almost exactly the same." You hated yourself for lying to him. You knew it wasn't true – there was no way his body would work the same, missing so much muscle from such a vital place.

"You're a liar," he said, but rolled back to face you. His eyes were red rimmed and glassy, and you knew that he had just rolled away to wipe tears from his eyes. But you didn't say anything – you'd broken enough rules today.

"I'm not lying," you tried to comfort him, "I'm telling you what I believe."

"You're a moron." He closed his eyes, and fell back to sleep, where you knew he was happier, at least for a short time.

**4.) Blythe House**

John was out of the house when the call came –visiting with some buddies. And you were grateful because he hated to see you cry, especially over Greg. James had called you while you were in the middle of making supper. You held the phone between your shoulder and your ear while breading chicken breasts. "James," you remember saying after hearing his quiet voice on the other end. "It's so good to hear from you." You didn't want to seem rude, so you didn't ask why he was calling.

"Hi Blythe," you weren't sure why he sounded so shaken, until you heard what seemed to be a cross between a moan and a mewl in the background. A quiet and broken, "Wilson," in your son's voice. Your son's upset voice. And muffled, as though James had covered the mouth piece on his phone, "Just wait a second, House, I'll be there in a minute." Then you hear him uncover the mouth piece. By now you had dropped the chicken, and were holding the phone in a gooey, messy hand. "Sorry, Blythe." He took a deep breath, "You should sit down."

Your stomach plummeted. You didn't even bother washing off your hands, just wiped them hastily on your apron while walking from the kitchen to the living room. Once you had perched yourself on the sofa, you said, "Okay, I'm sitting. James, what _is_ going on?"

"I don't know how to say this, so I think I've just got to say it." You could hear him pacing. "Greg had...an infarction in his leg."

"A what?"

"A blood clot. It destroyed a lot of the muscle tissue in his right thigh. He had to have some of it surgically removed."

"I...what?" your brain didn't seem to want to function today.

"I know it's a lot to take in. But I thought that you and John should know as soon as possible." You heard a crash on the other end, the shattering of something glass or ceramic. "House! God dammit! I told you just to wait!" You were still so shocked, you weren't even surprised when James yelled. "I'm sorry Blythe, I have to go."

"Oh...okay. Will you have Greg call when he's feeling up to it?" You heard Wilson grunt with effort.

"I will. But Blythe?"

"Yes?" You were starting to feel tears prickle at your eyes.

"I wouldn't hold my breath." You heard the phone clatter to the floor. You knew that you should hang up, that what you heard on the other end would only upset you more. But some unseen force kept you from hitting the off button on your cordless phone.

"House, come on, you have to work with me."

"Fuck you Wilson! I am working!"

"You just pushed yourself from the toilet to the floor. Your efforts are counterproductive at best."

"I was done. I called you."

"I told you to wait. I was on the phone."

"Well I'm sorry that my taking a shit interferes with your social life."

"It wasn't a social call." A grunt of further exertion. "Come on, you can do it."

"Shut up!" but his voice cracked, you knew what your son sounded like when he was crying.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," James sounded bored, tired, worn out. But still his fading voice encouraged your son. "Come on, just a few more steps."

The last thing you heard was your son asking, "Well if it wasn't social, who were you calling?" and you decided it was time to hang up. With nothing else to occupy your mind, you found yourself thinking of poor Greg – how everyday actions were now near impossible for him. You dropped your head to your hands and sobbed, ignoring your running nose, until you remembered that John would be home soon. You got up, still hiccupping for lack of air, dabbed at your eyes with the corner of your apron, and went to the bathroom to fix your make up.

**5.) Gregory House**

You didn't want to get out of bed. You hadn't wanted to for at least two weeks. You hadn't shaven, only bathed (reluctantly) twice, and Wilson had to drag to you to physio. You wished you could kill yourself, but damn bastard was at your side practically 24/7, and you knew whenever he was gone, Stacy was watching you through the almost closed blinds – wishing you would just talk to her. But you wouldn't. You couldn't.

Because you knew that if you were in a room with her and you opened your mouth, the only sound that would come out would be incoherent yelling and that would hurt her. And you didn't want to hurt her.

So you let Wilson take care of you: shooing nurses from the room and giving you sponge baths so you could retain some of your dignity; carrying you to the bathroom; making you eat when you tried to clamp your mouth shut by laying on your arms and holding your nose until you had to gasp for breath. It was Wilson who coerced the code out of a nurse and upped your morphine. It was Wilson who pretended to be asleep in his chair every time you started crying. And it was Wilson who forcefully dragged you out of bed, stuck you in a wheelchair, threatened to use restraints, and pushed you to rehab.

More than you loathed your bum leg for all the pain it caused, you loathed your physio coach. Her voice was honey sweet, and her words were encouraging in an "I-think-you're-acting-like-a-five-year-old-so-I'm-going-to-treat-you-like-one" way. Every time you fell (which was often) she would catch you, struggle to hold up your weight, and force you to grab back onto the bars nearest you.

"You're doing great," she would say in a falsely cheery voice while Wilson helped you, exhausted and covered in sweat, into the wheelchair. But you heard them. When they thought you were resting, behind closed doors. She would say in a sad, hushed voice, "He'll be lucky if he ever walks again."

At night time, you felt wasted and worn. The traffic outside of your room would thin, and you only heard your heartbeat on the monitor and Wilson's voice.

He liked to bring food up from the cafeteria, trying to entice you to steal some, because he knew that the hospital food they gave you was disgusting and you were losing weight. He would try to occupy you with gossip about a hot nurse, or a gay colleague but every time you looked at him, you saw it. He knew, and you knew: you would never be the same again.

**1.) John House**

**(** Blythe had been anxious about going to visit Greg so soon after his discharge, but you had been adamant. "That Wilson kid said he's lethargic. He needs visitor," you said from the doorway, your arms crossed, watching your wife pack your suitcase.

"I know what _James_ said," she told you, sighing, "I just wonder if Greg needs some time to deal with this on his own, first."

"That's ridiculous," you told her, "he's probably perfectly fine. Just milking an injury for all it's worth. No different than when he was a kid." You turned and walked away because she always coddled him too much, making him think he was really hurting. But you know the truth. **)**


End file.
